


A Dangerous Game

by fredbassett



Series: A Dangerous Liaison (The Musketeers - 2014) [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1347874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos is angry and Treville is unrepentant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Dangerous Game

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Episode 1.08 The Challenge.

“You could have been killed!”

The words were delivered with the same force as one of Labarge’s head-butts.

Treville inclined his head in acknowledgment of Athos’s judgment. There was no point in denying it. If his men hadn’t thrown challenge etiquette to the four winds, he would no doubt have been spitted like a hog in front King Louis and his court. Not exactly the most glorious end to his military career, but it was the risk he’d taken when he’d gone into a fight against a man a good deal younger than him.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Athos seemed puzzled by the lack of a response, his fury starting to fizzle out like a damp fuse, even though his expression remained darkly belligerent.

Treville held his left arm against his stomach, supporting it with his right hand. “Athos, would you do me the signal service of returning my shoulder to its correct position? When you’ve done that, you may to berate me as much as you want.”

“On the desk or on your bed?” A slight smile quirked Athos’ lips, but even though the first flush of his anger had abated, resentment still simmered in his eyes.

“The bed. It will involve less rearrangement of paperwork, something you have scant respect for at the best of times.”

Still holding tightly onto his own arm, Treville stalked into his private quarters with as much dignity as he could muster. The pain of the dislocation was intense and the longer the joint remained out of alignment, the more trouble it would give him later. He’d had no desire to shame himself further in front of the king or the cardinal by asking for assistance, although Richelieu’s sharp eyes had no doubt told him all he needed to know. So he’d borne the pain without outward complaint, knowing it was inevitable that Athos would follow him to vent his anger, and sure in the knowledge that he would be able to turn that to his advantage.

The room he slept in was as stark as his office, containing nothing more than a bed, two chests, a small table and a variety of weapons on a rack on the wall. Waiting for Athos to join him, Treville stood in front of the window, watching his men indulging in their usual activities in the garrison yard: gaming, fighting and drinking. And no doubt calling in the bets they’d laid during the competition.

Athos followed him into the room, an earthenware mug in one hand and a flagon of brandy in the other.

“Fortunate you replenished your stocks,” the musketeer remarked.

“It was necessary after your depredations the other day.”

“Might I remind you who instigated that?”

The reminder was unnecessary. They both knew what tactics Treville employed when dealing with Athos. Alcohol, sometimes followed by sex, generally served to bring Athos out of the worst of his moods. If that failed in the first instance, more alcohol was usually the answer.

“Is it too much to hope that you’ve brought my good cognac?”

Athos snorted derisively. “You don’t deserve it. Besides, you need quantity for this, not quality.” The look Athos gave Treville was shrewd and calculating, overlain with just a hint of concern. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer me to summon Aramis? He is more skilled in this particular dark art than I.”

“You are competent enough.” Treville let go of his injured arm, but without the support he’d been providing the weight dragged at the misaligned joint, stretching sinew and muscle. It was hard to bite back a cry as pain lanced through his shoulder, searing him like a burning brand. He quickly returned his good arm to its previous employment, but for a moment he feared that he was about to make a close and rapid acquaintance with the polished wooden floor.

Athos was at his side in an instant, a firm arm snaking around his waist, holding him upright without jarring the injury. “You’re a fool.” Athos spoke the words like a caress, his breath ghosting over the back of Treville’s neck. “When will you learn to trust us? Anyone of us would have fought that challenge for you.”

“Men fight better for a cause.” Treville regretted the words as soon as they’d left his mouth. He hadn’t intended to divulge his reasoning, but Athos knew him too well. He felt the man’s arm tighten around his waist.

“And you decided to provide that cause.” It was a statement, not a question. “You played a dangerous game.”

Abruptly, Athos released his hold, pulled the stopper from the flagon of brandy and slopped a large measure into the mug. He held it up and Treville put his lips to the rim and drank, knowing he needed to dull his senses quickly for what was to come. As he gulped the fiery spirit, a trickle ran from the corner of his mouth, but with one arm out of action and the other gainfully employed, he could do nothing to wipe it from his face.

Athos withdrew the mug then leaned in close and caught the drip of brandy with his tongue, his mouth gentle on the stubble on Treville’s jaw. “You played a dangerous game, mon capitaine. How did you know that we would intervene or that the king would not simply cry foul?”

Athos took a mouthful of brandy from the same mug in a gesture strangely more intimate than even than the caress of his lips, but his eyes were as challenging as ever.

“I did not know.” Treville spoke nothing but the truth. Athos was right; he had indeed played a dangerous game. “But I know the temper of my men, and I know that the king likes to style himself Louis the Just. It was a calculated risk that you would act as you did and that the king would indulge your sentiment. I had every expectation of being able to turn defeat into victory.” His gamble that afternoon had paid off, but they both knew that things could so easily have ended differently.

“You already knew the cardinal had appointed Labarge as their champion.”

“Of course.”

“And you did not trust one of us to stand against him?” Athos’ cultured voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

The pain was fogging his brain and Treville knew he stood little chance of further arguing his corner. “If you would be so kind as to restore my shoulder first and then vent your feelings later...?”

Without speaking, Athos held the mug to Treville’s lips again and allowed him to drain its contents.

As the spirit spread its warm fingers into his guts, Treville turned and walked to his bed as steadily as he could contrive. Moving from vertical to horizontal cost him considerable pain. He lay with his left shoulder overlapping the side of the bed while Athos sat beside him and took hold of his hand, drawing his arm away from his chest. It took all Treville’s self-control not to shout so loudly as to be heard down in the courtyard.

“Try to relax. You know that as soon as this is done, the pain will recede.” The tone was that of a man used to dealing with injuries in others, for all that Athos claimed little experience of such matters.

Treville closed his eyes. “Do it, Athos.”

Athos leaned back, bracing one booted foot against the side of the bed. He pulled inexorably on Treville’s hand, guiding it out and down, never slackening his grip. Every muscle in Treville’s body tensed and lightning danced a blazing trail along his nerves. Then, with an audible pop, the joint sprang back into place.

The relief was instantaneous. A dull, bearable ache replaced the agony he’d been in since the moment Labarge had stamped his booted foot on his shoulder, knowing exactly where to place it to inflict maximum pain. Athos pulled an immaculate square of white linen from a pocked and wiped away the sweat that had stood out on Treville’s forehead.

“You make an unlikely nursemaid,” Treville murmured.

“And you make an unlikely fool.” Athos bent his head and placed a light kiss on Treville’s lips. “But I’ll say no more of it.”

“Your self-restraint is admirable.” Treville used his right arm to push himself upright on the bed. He reached for the fastenings on his leather jerkin, but Athos pushed his hand away and did the job himself, before gently easing the garment off and dropping it to the floor.

“Yes, it is,” Athos drawled, an unmistakeable glint of amusement his eyes. “And I’ll remind you of this discourse the next time you feel the need to point out my shortcomings. Now, am I permitted to seek out some liquor that doesn’t taste like it’s been distilled from Porthos’s undergarments after a month spent on campaign?”

“You know where it’s kept.” Treville seized the hem of his undershirt and pulled it, one-handed, over his head, glad to be able to allow himself a grimace of pain without being scrutinised by his subordinate; his subordinate who also happened to be, on occasion, his lover.

Athos returned a few moments later with a glass decanter. He poured a large amount into the same mug and settled himself down on Treville’s bed, his back against the wall. He took a mouthful and nodded appreciatively, before handing over the mug. Treville drank from it and handed it back. They traded the alcohol back and forth without speaking until the mug was empty and the pain in Treville’s shoulder had subsided to manageable levels.

“Lie down and let me work on it for you.” Athos was in the habit of command and it showed.

“The coverlet is clean. My boots are not.”

Athos sighed theatrically, but went to his knees on the floor by the bed, tugging off first one boot and then the other, before sitting back on his heels and staring up from beneath long, dark lashes that would be the envy of any woman. Treville reached out with his right hand and ran his fingers through Athos’ thick hair.

Athos caught hold of the hand and lifted the back of Treville’s fingers to his lips, his eyes letting it me known that he was wholly unashamed of the gesture. Treville let out a long, slow breath and settled himself carefully down on the bed. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to enjoy the sensation of long, strong fingers moving gently over his shoulder, seeking out the corded muscle and carefully kneading away the tension.

The alcohol and Athos’ skilled hands were a hard combination to deny, and Treville finally allowed himself to surrender to the familiar post-combat fatigue that he had so recently exploited for his own ends after Athos’ duel with the Duke of Savoy.

Sleep would soon claim him.

And maybe, just maybe, Athos would still be with him when he awakened.


End file.
